


Sure as the Wyvern Flies, I'll Be Standing by Your Side

by foxjar



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Drama, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Golden Deer Route, First Time, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, Post-Canon, Romance, stealing clothes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-16 10:34:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28580598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxjar/pseuds/foxjar
Summary: Lorenz and Claude reunite at a summit after the war has ended. Secrets come to light, things Lorenz kept hidden from everyone — or so he thought.
Relationships: Lorenz Hellman Gloucester/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 6
Kudos: 92
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 6





	Sure as the Wyvern Flies, I'll Be Standing by Your Side

**Author's Note:**

  * For [notallbees](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notallbees/gifts).



Fódlan as they once knew it, the land of empires and alliances, is no more. The kingdom is united, trudging ever onward to rebuild. Settlements have been destroyed, lives have been scattered, but the determination to survive lives on.

The next phase — branching out to neighboring countries — begins now.

Lorenz pushes open the doors to the meeting hall, the ancient hinges screeching. Queen Byleth has trusted him to help her shape the new kingdom's policies — up until now, at least — but she insisted on accompanying him today. This prickles his pride, but she is his queen; together, they are unstoppable and can topple any foe that steps into their path.

Nothing foul could be afoot, Lorenz thinks. Not with the queen by his side, as well as a multitude of world leaders. But then everyone around the meeting hall's long table stands as they enter and Lorenz sees the flash of gold, a lion's mane at dawn.

Claude von Riegan has returned to Fódlan at last. He looks much as Lorenz remembers him — his dark hair swept back, a line of stubble cradling his jaw — but his clothes are different. Although still golden, his cloak is longer, thicker, and trimmed with fur. The cravat around his neck is cream-colored, his shirt black and bespeckled with gleaming gold buttons.

Very kingly, Lorenz might say, if only they were alone. Confidence has always dripped from Claude, as neverending as a waterfall, but now he possesses it in every sense of the word. He is king.

Byleth squeezes Lorenz's shoulder, and when he turns to her, he can see it in the way she studies his face, waiting for a reaction. She knew. Everyone but Lorenz, it seems. He lets them keep their little inside joke for now and proceeds to address the world leaders in greeting.

"Please, have a seat," Lorenz says, gesturing toward the table before he sits down next to Byleth. Servers come in with trays of sandwiches and sweet buns for everyone to nibble on; to quench their thirst, they are served piping hot tea.

With the war such a fresh wound, another battle seems like such a far-off thought. Fódlan is still rebuilding, still healing. It's best now to establish how each of the countries can work together to achieve their individual goals.

Lorenz sips his tea, a pleasant bittersweet blend and still steaming. Negotiations are going well; there are trade routes to open, import restrictions to lift, and military aid to promise. Everyone wants something, no matter how powerful they are. Everyone hungers for more.

A sheaf of blank paper lies before him, his single pile turning to multiple as he takes dictation. He tries not to make eye contact with Claude unless he has to. All those years of flinging accusations onto him, all the suspicions bred into Lorenz by his own father, and here Claude is, the ruler of Almyra. Now is not the time to be sentimental; now is the time to be firm, to reinforce boundaries and foster beneficial relationships. His focus is on Fódlan and how best to serve his ailing country.

But Lorenz's gaze slips. Once, twice, three times, and then — is that a wink? It's there one moment and gone the next, as unpredictable as a storm rushing to clear skies. Lorenz sets his quill pen down lest he snaps it, but not before his surprise results in thick, jagged ink splotches on the page.

Claude is making a mockery of this meeting, the absolute scamp, and yet Lorenz can't help but feel the life he breathes into it. He leans back in his chair, his eyes never leaving Lorenz. The utter gall he has to smirk from the back of the room so that only Lorenz and the queen can see.

Their conference ends at sunset, just before the day slips into night. There will be more gatherings, more discussions, but for now his evening is free. Lorenz stacks his papers together, covering the ink-stained page before turning to leave. He's the last in the room and when he pushes open the doors this time, the sound echoes, booming in the stillness. Even the hallway lies deserted until he spots Claude just around the corner in all his extravagant finery, fiddling with a quill pen in his hand.

Lorenz's quill pen. He eyes it warily, pondering whether or not to snatch it back as Claude strokes the quill's barbs. Once he's close enough to smell the fruit-imbibed tea on his breath, Claude pulls his hand away and corrals Lorenz against the stone wall, still managing to appear imposing despite being over a dozen centimeters shorter.

"I missed you," Claude says, his breath hot on Lorenz's face. He pushes his foot between Lorenz's, then his knee — then stops, both invading his space and teasing him at the same time.

Lorenz stares off down the hall past Claude, denying him the satisfaction of meeting his irritated gaze. Anyone could stumble across them if they aren't careful, and the last thing Lorenz wants is for the queen to see Claude's leg between his.

"Regardless of your status, your attempts at flirtation will not work on me."

"Why, Lorenz — are you saying I could woo you if I weren't royalty?" Claude steps back, gracing him with a flourished bow. "Then by all means, think of me as your humble servant."

Despite the proffered escape, Lorenz remains. It would be so easy to push past him — would Claude even try to grab his arm, his coattails, anything? — but Lorenz has loose ends to trim, knots to retie and cast aside.

"You insult me now," Lorenz says, "as you just spent the last hour insulting this great kingdom."

"You're exaggerating, as you always do. No one saw."

"'No one,' you say? Now you insult the queen! Here, in her own hall —"

Claude closes the distance between them, stroking the fake rose pinned to Lorenz's chest like a treasured pet.

"I did miss you. Truly."

"Did you, now?" Lorenz huffs, but with less confidence than he'd had before. The solemnness in Claude's voice unnerves him, usually so calm, so in control. "I suppose I should feel honored."

"And do you?" Claude steps closer, their chests mere centimeters apart as he cranes his neck to look up at Lorenz.

It isn't honor that courses through Lorenz; it's something he can't name, can't put his finger on. Something that makes his chest feel tight, as if his armor has caved in beneath an axe's blow.

"I feel as though my past has come back to haunt me," Lorenz says, more for his own benefit than Claude's, as he stares past him again.

"Ouch. That's a little harsh, is it not?"

"I suppose you are here to menace me for the return of your things." Lorenz gestures to the pen still in Claude's hand. "Although how you found out — well, I shouldn't be surprised. It is you, after all."

Claude cocks his head but doesn't ask Lorenz to explain. He just follows him through the halls of the fort, blessedly empty for the most part. There are a few familiar faces from their time together at the monastery, and while they nod or smile at one another, Lorenz doesn't stop to chat and neither does Claude. When they're finally at Lorenz's room, he glances down the hallway, eyes thinned.

"You never know who has their eye on you," Lorenz says. "Who might hope to spread some inane gossip, to tarnish the good Gloucester name."

"I agree." Claude rests his palms behind his head, the way he did when they were younger, a lifetime ago before the war. "But is having the king of Almyra in your room such a scandalous thing?"

"Just as I assume your voice has hit its highest possible level, you prove me wrong." Lorenz unlocks the door and pushes it open, the thought of allowing Claude into such a personal space unsettling but necessary. "Inside, please, before you shatter someone else's eardrums."

The thick curtains are wide open, letting in the last light of sunset. On the windowsill are red roses in a glass vase, ornamented with grooves — a gift from Queen Byleth. Lorenz's desk is tidy but stacked full of correspondence, on which he sets the notes he took during the meeting.

At last he turns to Claude, his steps softened by the rug imported from Almyra, depicting archers on wyverns and horses riding off to war. Some part of Lorenz always knew Claude would return. Some part even wanted him to.

The last time Claude had been in his room was back at the monastery. Lorenz was writing poetry — perhaps reading the lines back a little too loudly, his gusto a bit excessive — when Claude knocked on his door.

"It sounds like you're raising an army in here," Claude said, walking past Lorenz and into the room. As Lorenz gawked at him, Claude made himself comfortable at his desk and poured a cup of tea. "Is that what you're doing? Raising an army?"

"I do not have time for your riddles. Speak plainly."

"Ah, then our arrangement seems to be one-sided. I will always have time for _your_ riddles." Claude picked up the paper Lorenz had left on his desk, scanning it as he sipped his tea.

Lorenz's poem. He reached for it, but Claude snapped it away.

"I won't tell anyone that you write poetry about how glorious the nobility is. Nor the scent of roses after spring rain, or — what's this? 'The fall of chess pieces upon a board, the summer spice of his breath, I lean back and yet what I crave is more, always more...'"

"It is about the woes of homesickness," Lorenz lied. Claude wouldn't have understood; at the time, Lorenz hadn't, either.

"Have you ever thought about taking a more direct approach?" Claude had asked. He touched Lorenz's shoulder before he left, leaving behind nothing but confusion and his empty cup. "Some food for thought."

After that day, Claude never stepped inside Lorenz's room. He'd send someone to relay a message or he'd knock himself, but he never went into his room again.

But now here Claude is in Lorenz's abode once more, having come full-circle in a way. His eyes dart around the room, soaking it all in. Lorenz doesn't think he himself changed much since they last saw each other. He's more tired, perhaps — eager and oh so willing to chomp up every responsibility that Queen Byleth is willing to slide his way — but he is the same man, poet and all.

Lorenz backs away toward his bed, fingers sliding beneath his pillows, shaky but determined, as Claude looks over the room. He must be looking for some chink in Lorenz's armor, some poison to tip his verbal barbs with, when he has no further to look than at what Lorenz is pulling out from behind his back.

_These are the secrets._

"'The summer spice of his breath,'" Lorenz recites. He has no idea if Claude remembers his silly poem, but it doesn't matter now. "You told me to take a more direct approach, and I did as you advised."

He pulls a folded gold cloak from beneath the pillow, and at first, Claude doesn't seem to recognize it. His eyes squint as he studies it, his hand on his chin, and Lorenz almost thinks he'll get away with it. Claude won't put the pieces together and he'll leave Lorenz's room as he entered it, ignorant of Lorenz's odd hobby.

But nothing is quite that simple, not with Claude.

"It belongs to me," he says after a moment of thought. "One of my class cloaks. How did you come to possess it?"

His voice isn't accusatory, merely curious, but it might as well be. All these years Lorenz has kept this secret, and finally it comes to light. There is nothing for him to do now other than tell the truth.

"I stole it," Lorenz confesses. "As I stole a great many things."

A cravat, yellowed with age. A shirt, folded neatly but missing a few buttons.

"I thought I had lost these, in all honesty. Or that some laundry mishap had occurred." Claude laughs, inspecting each article of clothing, running his hands along the fabric. "May I ask why you deemed it necessary to steal my clothes? Did you think I was hiding something devious in them?"

"I once told you that I was homesick at the monastery. That was not entirely a lie," Lorenz explains. "In a way, you are that. A symbol of home."

"''A symbol of home,'" Claude echoes, the realization dawning on his face a sweet storm. "Are you sure it isn't because you like the way I smell?"

"Preposterous." Lorenz backs away as Claude closes in on him, his knees hitting the bed before he tumbles onto the mattress. "Your scent is that of —"

"'Summer spice,' I know." Claude is between his legs now, bending over him and cupping his cheek. He rubs his thumb across Lorenz's cheek with such tenderness that he's almost rendered speechless, but he won't be silenced that easily.

"If you knew what it all meant, why didn't you tell me then? Why did you allow me to bumble through all these years, pressing your cloak to my face as if I were trapped underwater and your scent was oxygen? You are truly —"

Their lips meet, and Claude tastes of tea and skin. He crawls onto the bed, hovering over him, that maddening smirk plastered on his face until Lorenz pulls his face to his again. Claude's stubble digs into his chin and he parts his lips, breaths intermingling as their legs twine together.

The fingers that curl around his waist feel almost possessive. They slip up beneath the hem of his shirt, ice on his heated skin. When Claude isn't kissing him, he's studying Lorenz's face. He almost wants to ask what he sees, what entrances him so, but then Claude is rocking against him, grinding upon his thigh to provide the sweetest friction.

Claude lies back on the bed and pulls at the front of Lorenz's shirt, leading him to perch above his hips. He carefully unpins Lorenz's rose and sets it on the end table before tearing open his shirt, buttons be damned. There's a protest on Lorenz's lips up until Claude's mouth finds his chest, tongue trailing down his skin.

It pains Lorenz to see their clothes strewn about the room: shirts, pants, and finally their underclothes. But it pains him more to even think of breaking their embrace to neatly fold their clothes, especially when Claude's hands are on him, keeping him anchored.

The first time Lorenz feels Claude's cock against his own is bliss. Claude's eyes slip shut and Lorenz is content to rock against him, the silence somehow even more arousing than anything Claude could say. He is speechless, and it is Lorenz who renders him this way. No scheming, no quips — just skin on skin.

Claude squeezes Lorenz's ass, his lips nuzzling his neck. Lorenz's first instinct is to jump, to retreat from such a strange touch, but Claude keeps him still. Calm. His hair is a curtain of purple trailing beside them, damp with sweat and tangling from their romp, from Claude's fingers twisting through it as if it's the only thing for him to hold onto. His lifeline.

"Scoot up a bit," Claude says, fingers still squeezing him. "And spread your legs."

"I do not —"

It isn't a refusal on his lips, rather pleasure ridden confusion, but then Claude kisses him again, his lips lingering like an icy wind.

"Please," he says.

Lorenz can't remember the last time Claude has ever pleaded with him for anything, so he acquiesces, positioning himself so that his collarbone is above Claude's face. It feels oddly impersonal until Claude brushes his nipples with his thumbs, the jolt of pleasure making Lorenz moan, his body curling against Claude's. Their embrace is obscene — what would the queen think, or his father? — but Lorenz wouldn't have it any other way.

Once Claude has eased his cock between Lorenz's thighs, he says, "Now press them together."

And so he does, squeezing his thighs together as Claude's scalding breath cascades over his chest. Lorenz doesn't know if he's doing it right, if Claude feels any pleasure; he couldn't voice such a lewd question. How could he phrase his words in a way that wouldn't be mortifying?

But Claude reads his apprehension, feels it in the tautness of his body as he holds his hips.

"Just like that," Claude says. His voice is breathy, and it's because of Lorenz. He squeezes his thighs together before relaxing them, feeling Claude rock up between them. His movements are jittery, unpredictable; the once collected Claude has come undone. Lorenz smirks at the revelation, and although Claude can't see his face, this will be something he remembers forever.

His own arousal still aches, rubbing against Claude's stomach as they resume their fervent rocking. Claude wraps his arms around Lorenz's waist, pressing kisses to his neck, collarbone, chest. Everything is hot — the air, his skin, Claude's lips — and he wants to come, to finally ride out his release. His composure escapes him; no longer can he hold his voice inside, no longer can he ignore the pleasure coiling inside him.

Lorenz clenches his thighs around Claude's arousal, and every time he manages to make him gasp, he feels the faintest glint of joy. Of winning at long last. His palms are sweaty against the sheets, his thighs damp with pre-come, and yet it's all so thrilling. If someone had told him a week ago that he'd soon find himself in Claude's embrace, he would've been appalled. Claude wasn't ever coming back, wherever the rascal had scampered off to — this is what Lorenz had told himself, anyway. No matter what he or anyone else wanted.

But Claude did come back. He returned to make peace: with Fódlan, and with Lorenz.

When Lorenz tightens his thighs again, Claude's nails rake down his back, squeezing his ass as he finally comes, his hips still shaking. Satisfaction swims through Lorenz at being able to elicit such gratification from Claude's body; it was him and him alone that brought Claude to such a peak. He's still riding that smug high when Claude eases him onto his back; Lorenz assumes it's so he can get cleaned up, but no, Claude reaches for him and strokes his arousal almost lazily, the sudden touch making Lorenz shudder. Then Claude grins up at him, giving him a sloppy kiss before he scoots further down the bed. His lips wrap around Lorenz's cock, and he can't help but thrust his hips up into the warmth of his mouth.

Lorenz is pondering all of the insults he could sling Claude's way — how dare he not warn him, how dare he feel so good — but all he does is twist the sheets, his fingers clawing at the bed. It's wet and hot inside his mouth, his whole body tingling. When Claude's tongue slides down the length of him, his hand jerking him as he pulls back, Lorenz's composure seeps from him. He's always been drawn to that pompous smirk of Claude's, but never quite like this. Never with the thought of him leaning over his willing body, that egotistical mask of understanding upon his face, as he brings Lorenz to his lips once again.

He is woefully uninformed on the particulars of sex, but releasing in Claude's mouth seems so vulgar, not to mention dirty. But when he tries to signal his oncoming orgasm, his voice escapes him. He touches Claude's hair, resorting to tugging when he just keeps swallowing around him, bringing him even deeper into his mouth. It's then that Lorenz realizes he's doing it on purpose, the impudent man; he wants Lorenz in his mouth, wants everything he has to give.

The moan that erupts from Lorenz's lips is shameful, but it feels too good to even try to repress it. His nerves are aflame, pleasure finally reaching a crescendo at the base of his cock, and then he's filling Claude's mouth, all while his hands still tangle in his hair. Claude lets him rock his hips, the smallest mercy, making him gag around him.

And then it's all over as time seems to slow, the air as thick as a summer heatwave. Claude's back is turned to him as he dresses, and Lorenz almost demands that he face him — face what he's done, all the emotions he's stirred up. Could he be smiling at the wall, waiting for Lorenz to grip his shoulders and twist him around, all so that he can place another kiss upon his lips? Or has the finality of their intimacy hit him like it's hit Lorenz?

"You'll be returning to Almyra," he says, pulling the sheet up to cover his body. The fact that he's nude at all — and in front of Claude — strikes him as improper, as if he's young again, waiting for his father to scold him for some wrongdoing.

Claude finishes buttoning his shirt, his hands falling to his sides. "Was there any doubt of that?"

"No," Lorenz says. Everything in the room feels awkward now, every personal bit on display: the quilt from his mother folded up on his chair, all of the books and notes he has stacked on his desk that would divulge so much if only someone bothered to sift through them. "Not a single one."

When Claude faces him, he's clutching his golden cloak in his hands — the one that Lorenz stole years ago. It no longer holds his scent, not after all this time, but the thought of losing it makes Lorenz's chest ache.

"I know that Teach — the queen, I mean," Claude says, correcting himself midsentence when Lorenz glares at him, "needs you here. I know that you are wanted here. You lead well, and you help people, even those who don't believe in you."

Claude squeezes the cloak in his hands, the fabric twisted but still somehow beautiful. Lorenz never thought he'd see it on him again; it'd become detached at some point, living on as more of a symbol of loss than of Claude himself. 

"But you will always be welcome in Almyra," Claude continues. "I will see to that. And if you're ever in need of a reminder of 'home,' you know where to find me. You no longer need to steal my clothes, for you have stolen something much greater. Something that can never be replaced."

More than anything, Lorenz wants to pull him back into bed, to live through their earlier intimacy again and again until the wheels of time cease to turn. But Lorenz refuses that desire, choosing instead to welcome the twists of time, moving ever onward.

Lorenz stands, the sheet slipping to the floor, and as Claude's eyes rake over his body, still as ravenous as Lorenz himself, he cups his cheeks. Their eyes meet, and at that moment, he knows he will never lose them.

"Whatever it takes, we will make this work," Lorenz declares. When they kiss, Lorenz feels that this is not an ending but a beginning. Claude wraps his arms around him, still clutching the cloak that began it all.

* * *

And so the king of Almyra and the loyal subject of Fódlan's queen sealed their eternal bond, and to this day, nary a moon passes where they do not find themselves in each other's arms. They are freer with their words, looser with their secrets; thinly-veiled insults still fly, disagreements abound, but when all is said and done, they always return to one another.

Both of their countries prosper from the union, with Almyra becoming a second home to Lorenz and Fódlan still being dear to Claude. Fódlan is where they met, after all; where the magic all started.

The distance between them may be great, the mountains separating them seemingly insurmountable, but their determination conquers all.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is inspired by a line from Atreyu's song "Super Hero."


End file.
